


Stay

by anotherwinchesterfangirl



Series: Song Prompt Fics [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dimples, F/M, Schmoop, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2018-12-01 03:24:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherwinchesterfangirl/pseuds/anotherwinchesterfangirl
Summary: Sam & Dean frequent a bar called Elbert's whenever they're passing through the small midwest town. As the owner and bartender, you've always had a thing for Sam.For the song prompt "Bleeding Love" by Leona Lewis.





	1. Stay

It’s a busy night. Busier than it’s been in a long time actually, and you’ve been rushing back and forth behind the bar, cracking open beers and pouring shots, for the past four hours. You’re ready to drop and it’s only halfway to closing time, when two tall men blow in with a swirl of snow. They stand on the welcome mat for a moment, eyes adjusting to the smoky dark interior of the bar and stomping the icy slush from their boots. You’d know those broad shoulders anywhere, and you follow them with your eyes as they claim the two bar stools furthest from the door.

“What can I get you, boys?” you ask, tossing paper coasters onto the slick bar top in front of them. You’re trying to play it cool, but you’re sure that Sam can hear your heart pounding from across the bar. He looks up, and all the air wooshes from your lungs. How could you have forgotten just how gorgeous his eyes are—somehow green and blue and amber all at the same time.

“Hey,” he says. He leans his forearms on the bar and smiles warmly—a flash of teeth and dimples. His voice is raspy and warm, like honey, and you want to curl up in it and stay the night. Maybe.

“Hey,” you say back, swaying forward a little with one hip pressing into the bar. You can’t help it; you’re worthless up against that Winchester charm.

“Busy tonight?” he asks, glancing around the place.

“Oh yeah. I guess the snow storm even has hunters staying put for the night.” You grab two beers from the cooler, pop the tops off, and clunk one down in front of each Winchester.

Dean says, “Thanks, sweetheart,” quick with a little half wink, picks up his beer and tips it toward you before heading over to the pool tables.

“So you guys working a case around here? Or just passing through?” you ask Sam, cracking open a beer for yourself. It’s close enough to closing time that you can get away with it.

“Just passing through.” He pauses, takes a sip of his beer, but doesn’t break eye contact. “I wanted to see you.” 

Heat rises in your cheeks, and there’s a flutter in your belly—you feel like you’re in junior high again. You can’t help it—you  _like_ Sam. You always have. Ever since him and Dean first walked into Elbert’s years ago.

Elbert’s is your bar—you bought it about five years ago from Elbert himself. The place had always been a hunter hangout, and you wanted to keep it that way, which is why you never changed the name. 

Yeah, you knew the life—knew it much more intimately than you’d like to, honestly, after losing your husband in a nasty vampire hunt. That’s part of the reason you bought the bar—at first it was sort of a spontaneous, grief-induced decision, but now it’s become like a mission. A mission to give hunters a safe place to go, to connect, to rest.

You take a sip of your beer and then set it on the bar next to Sam’s. “I’ll be right back, okay? Just gotta check on my customers.” He winks at you, one dimple flashing, and your stomach lurches, tingling all the way to the tips of your fingers.  _God_  that shit is lethal.

A few minutes later, you’re replacing empty glasses with full ones and cashing out a few tabs when your sister comes up from the back room.

“Did I see a Winchester out there?” she asks, looking at you out of the corner of her eye. She know that you and Sam have always flirted, and as much shit as she gives you about giving your heart away to another hunter—”You’re just gonna end up grieving on the floor again, Y/N”—even she has to agree that you deserve to get laid tonight. It’s been a long damn time.

“Both of ‘em,” you confirm, a slight smile at the corner of your lips. She’d deny it all day long, but you know she thinks Dean’s about the most perfect looking man in the world. (She’s not wrong.) She knows just what you’re thinking, and she rolls her eyes.

“Well, what are you doing over here then?” She snatches the checks you are holding out of your hands and shoos you away. “I’ll close up tonight. You go get him.”

Your cheeks flush hot, but you smile gratefully.

“Do I look okay?” you ask, nerves suddenly dropping into your stomach. You smooth a hand over your frizzy hair. “I probably smell like beer.”

“He probably _likes_  the smell of beer.” You wrinkle your nose and she shakes her head. “You’re a babe,” she assures you. “Now get out of here.”

You make your way back across the bar, studying Sam as you approach him, his broad shoulders hunched forward over his beer, a pensive look on his face as he scrolls through something on his phone. When you get a little closer, he looks up and smiles, flashing those dimples that literally make your knees knock together.

Before you can say anything, there’s a small uproar from the corner by the pool tables—half guys cheering and half guys grumbling. You look over your shoulder and see Dean, pool cue in hand, smirking like the cat that got the canary.

“Did you guys really come in here to hustle my customers?” you ask Sam, accusing but smiling at the same time.

He dimples back at you, laughs a little. “Nobody gets hustled in here; it’s all hunters. If anyone gets hustled, it’s their own damn fault.”

You laugh as you slide onto the stool next to him and reach across him for your beer. Your knee presses into his and it makes your breath catch in your throat. “That’s true,” you say, your voice thin as a wisp without any air behind it. You take a sip of your beer and a deep breath in through your nose before you can speak again. “So, what are you guys heading towards?”

Sam describes the suspected rugaru two states over and your pulse starts to pound in your ears. You don’t feel like you have the right to worry about him, but you always do anyway. You hear what the other hunters say about the Winchesters and the lengths they go to to keep the world safe and intact. It’s both the reason you’re so attracted to Sam and the reason you know you shouldn’t be smiling and laughing with him right now, offering up these pieces of your heart.

You’re on your third beer when you hear Dean’s voice behind you. “Sammy!” You both turn to see Dean shrugging on his coat. “Headin’ out?” he asks Sam, tilting his head toward the door.

“Stay,” you say, before you can stop yourself. You meant for it to sound like a casual suggestion, but your voice inflects up a little too much and it sounds like a plea. Sam doesn’t seem to mind, though as he settles a hand at the small of your back.

His voice is low and close to your ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

**

By 1:00am, Sam’s helped you shoo the last of your customers out the door, and the bar is empty and quiet except for your sister counting the cash in the back office. She offered to crash on the couch in there for the night, but Sam doesn’t know that.

“Nightcap?” you ask, pulling on your coat. It’s only twelve steps from the door of the bar to the door of your apartment, but when it’s negative ten degrees out in the dead of February, you still need a coat. You look up just as Sam nods, his eyes fixed on you in a steady, unwavering way that makes your whole body feel flushed. Maybe you won’t need your coat after all.

You lock up and lead Sam through the snow and around the building to the door to the apartment you share with your sister. He stands close behind you as you dig in your bag for your house keys, not touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of him and you shiver.

“Cold?” His voice is thick and right next to your ear, his hands on your shoulders suddenly, rubbing a little to warm you up. Your heart is in your throat, keeping your words stuck there, so you shake your head, turning toward him slightly because you can’t concentrate on finding your keys right now anyway, not when his hands are on you.

He completes your turn for you, pressing your back to the cold brick next to the door. You think—or hope—he’s going to kiss you, but he doesn’t. He pushes his long fingers up into your hair, the heel of his hand pressing up under the corner of your jaw, and just holds you there, your chin tipped up so you’re looking into his face, shadowy in the dim yellow glow from the porch light. There are snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes. You can’t quite read his eyes, would rather topple into them than try to decipher them, so, in a rush of boldness, you push up onto your toes and press your lips to his, finally, like you’ve been wanting to do all damn night.

He grunts a little, in surprise maybe, but it doesn’t take him long to catch up and his tongue slides past your lips, sending a surge of arousal through you. You sway forward and his hand catches the small of your back and he pulls you tight against him, lifting you so that the toes of your shoes are just barely scraping the sidewalk. When he breaks away, you’re both panting, your breath mingling together in puffs of white between you.

You blink up at him, unaware of what you’re supposed to be doing for a second before it comes back to you.

“Keys,” you mutter under your breath. “Keys.”

Sam chuckles over your head as you bend over your purse and finally pull out the lanyard that holds your apartment key. You hastily unlock the door and pull Sam into the dark foyer behind you, barely getting the door shut and locked again before Sam has you pinned up against the wall, hands in your hair and mouth claiming yours again.  _God_  you haven’t been kissed like this in a long time…maybe never. You feel it in your whole body, from his fingertips pressing into the back of your skull to his hip bones brushing against your belly and his  _tongue_ —fuck. You’re practically vibrating with the sheer intensity of it when he breaks off, breathing hard, and presses his forehead against yours. He’s so close that when your eyes drift open, your eyelashes brush his cheek, and the smell of him—woodsy and clean and slightly sweaty—surrounds you, his breath puffing quick against your cheek.

“Um,” you say, and your voice is rough so you clear your throat. “Do you…do you want a drink?”

“That’d be great,” he says, a little laugh in his voice.

You breathe and smile up at him. “The living room’s that way,” you say, pointing. He backs up a step and you duck out from under his arms with a shy smile and head down the hall toward the kitchen.

Once you’re alone, you take a deep breath and run shaky hands through your hair. You feel giddy and light—you’re not sure if it’s from the few beers you had at the bar or from kissing Sam, but you can’t wipe the smile off your face. You check your reflection quick in the microwave door, swiping under your eyes with your fingers to rub off any smudged mascara. You hope you don’t look as tired as you usually do after a night of bartending, but your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are bright, so you’re hoping for the best.

You get two glasses down from the cabinet, pour a couple fingers worth of bourbon into each, and then head toward the living room.

Sam’s coat is lying over the back of the couch and he’s sprawled over a cushion and a half, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his broad shoulders straining against the back of his shirt, and you take a sip of your drink to steady the throbbing ache in the pit of your belly. You take a deep breath and hand Sam his drink, perching yourself on the cushion next to him.

“Thanks,” he says. He takes a sip and licks his lips, and you feel like you’re on fire.

“So, where are you guys staying tonight? The H & K?”  _That’s a stupid question_ , you think. The H & K Motel is one of only two hotels in town, and the Winchesters have stayed there every time they’ve been here, as far as you know.

“Yeah,” Sam says, conversationally. His voice has lost it’s thick gravelly-ness from five minutes ago, but his gaze is still heated. “We even ended up in the same exact room we had last time we were through here. Same smell and everything.” He pulls a face, and you giggle, quick and light, like a popping bubble.  

“When  _was_  the last time you were here?” you wonder out loud. (The alcohol is definitely starting to catch up with you.) “That time Dean was cursed and only wanted to eat twinkies for three days?”

“Yeah, I’m still not convinced that was entirely a curse and not just Dean wanting twinkies.”

You go to take another sip of whiskey, smiling at the memory, and realize your drink is gone. Sam’s is too, and he sets his glass on the coffee table.

“C’mere,” he says, stretching an arm toward you. He takes your glass and sets it next to his and then grabs your fingers gently, tugging you forward. You fumble into his lap, settling with one knee on either side of his narrow hips, and he smiles up at you, brushes a wild piece of hair out of your face. You lean in to kiss him, your eyes slipping closed, but you tilt your head the wrong way and your nose bumps his. You giggle nervously, your cheeks heating up. Sam’s dimples are deep in his cheeks as he holds the side of your face in one wide palm and kisses you, deep and intense, with all the spark and heat of earlier, and all your nerves turn into raw, hot arousal.

You sigh into him and press your body against his, desperate to feel every inch of him against you. He groans, sliding his hands down over your ass and pushing his hips up so you can feel him—every inch of him—and he swallows your gasp with a grin against your mouth.

“Okay?” His voice is rough but gentle, his eyes all dark heat.

You nod and dip your head to catch his lips again. His stubble scratches against your palms as you slide your hands along his jawline and behind his ears, his hair curling soft around your fingers. He pushes up under your shirt with warm, strong hands, his long fingers brushing the clasp of your bra.

It takes him two attempts to undo your bra with one hand—his other hand’s dipped into the back of your jeans—and he pulls it and your shirt off in one quick tug over your head. He drags his thumb over your nipple and you shudder all over, a frisson of anticipation that touches every nerve in your body. You arch your back and push your hips forward, the friction of denim on denim making you moan.

“ _Sam_ ,” you say, and your voice doesn’t even sound like your own. You fumble clumsy at his shirt buttons until he takes mercy on you and shucks off his flannel himself, tossing it to the side. Then suddenly he wraps his arms around you and flips you back onto the couch so you’re laying under him, his arms taut on either side of your head, biceps bulging against his shirt sleeves.

He kisses you again, dragging his teeth over your lower lip, before sitting back a bit and pulling his t-shirt over his head. The way his hair fluffs up—like a lion’s mane—makes you giggle, and you swear his cheeks tinge pink just the slightest bit, but he shakes his hair around your face as he leans forward, creating a curtain around the two of you, blocking out the rest of the world. You’re still smiling when he kisses you again.

You kiss for what feels like forever, his hands running over your body almost reverently, until your hips are bucking up against his belly, and he finally undoes the button of your jeans and slips two long fingers into the front of your panties. He feels you out a little, and obviously he can read you like a book because he has you on the brink within seconds. It’s been awhile since you’ve been with a guy—since you’ve hand hands on you that weren’t your own—and you knew it would be fast, but you didn’t want it to be quite  _this_  fast. But before you can warn him, he leans down and sucks a nipple into his mouth, laving over it soft with his tongue, and you come, gasping and stuttering.

“I—I’m sorry,” you gasp.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, kissing your lips, soft and easy. “I meant to do that.”

You can’t help but grin, and you wiggle down the couch a little so you can reach the waistband of his jeans. You slide your hand over him, so hard inside his jeans that it must be painful, and squeeze just slightly. The resulting groan makes you hot all over again.

“ _Sam_ ,” you say, popping the button on his jeans and cupping him through the soft cotton boxer briefs, damp against your palm.

“Do you have—?” he asks, pushing into your hand.

“Upstairs,” you say, bemoaning the fact that you don’t keep a box of condoms right on the coffee table.

“Wait, I think…” he hops off you and reaches for his coat, rummaging in the pocket for a second before he pulls out his wallet, and then a condom, the look on his face adorably victorious.

He pushes his jeans and boxers down in one swift move, and you wiggle out of yours, kicking the whole mess—jeans, panties, and shoes—onto the floor. Sam rolls on the condom and climbs back onto the couch, between your knees. He grabs your hips and pulls you toward him slightly, and you gasp when his cock, stiff and slick, brushes against the crease of your thigh. He holds your gaze as he guides himself into you, and that beat, that breath, as he fills you up is the center of the entire universe. And yet, somehow, the next breath is even better as he pulls back and pushes forward, slow and controlled, creating space for himself inside you, you realize with a thrill.

The pace builds quickly, from slow and steady to hard and fast, little noises punching out of you in time with the creak of the couch.

“So. Fucking. Good,” he grits out through clenched teeth, punctuating each thrust. He’s leaning forward over you now, bracing his arms above your head, and the change in angle has you right back on the verge. You clutch at his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin, and thrusting your hips up to match him—once, twice—until you seize up under him, everything still for a split-second, and then shatter apart. Sam rides you through it, shuddering breath after shuddering breath, and then he suddenly pulls up tight against you, dragging hot and hard against your sensitive cunt, and swears in your ear as he comes, arms shaking with the intensity of it.

He half collapses on top of you, your cheek pressed against the sweat damp curls between his pecs, and you catch your breath in a daze. After a minute or two, he pulls out and rolls over, wedging himself between you and the back of the couch. You turn on your side, brushing your sweaty hair out of your face. You can’t stifle a yawn, and he grins.

“Stay?” you ask, for the second time that night.

He leans down so his lips touch your ear. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Not tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started a Part Two for this, but as of right now I'm not making any promises! :)


	2. Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple months later—the reader is falling hard for Sam Winchester.

There’s an old rotary phone that hangs on the wall of the bar, right next to the door to the office. It’s an ugly, 70’s pea-green with a cord that stretches nearly to the front door, and it hardly ever rings. It was there when you bought the place, and though you like the vintage eclecticness of it on the wall, you barely notice it most days. But today, it is taunting you. 

You keep the landline mostly for emergencies, but also a bit out of laziness—the bill is cheap, and you’d rather avoid a hassle with the phone company to cancel it. And today you’re really glad you have it, considering your cell phone is currently sitting on the bartop, the screen completely shattered. 

Usually, a bar for hunters is about the safest place you can be, but sometimes shit happens. Last night, two guys got into it over a game of darts, and when you looked over one had the other at knifepoint. Your fall had been an accident, really—when you grabbed the guy’s arm to throw him out, he spun around on reflex and knocked you backwards. Your right wrist took the brunt of the impact, and you were definitely feeling it this morning, but your phone had been in your back pocket when you landed hard against the wood floor, cracking the screen instantly.

It’d be at least a day or two before you could get a new one—when you live in the middle of nowhere, the closest Apple store is at least an hour away—so you borrowed your sister Amy’s phone this morning to text Sam. (Just so he wouldn’t be worried if he tried to get a hold of you, you told yourself.) You gave him the number for the landline— _ in case of emergency _ , you said. The words of his return text echo in your mind:  _ Bummer about the cracked phone. I’ll give you a call later, promise. _

You and Sam don’t really have the kind of relationship where you promise to call one another, but you do text.  A lot . He texted you first—about two minutes after you’d kissed him goodbye, still reeling from the night you spent together. You checked in on how the rugaru hunt was going; he let you know when they got back to the bunker. And over the next several weeks, you texted more and more, until it was to the point where Amy rolled her eyes every time your phone chimed.

You’re already missing him after just twelve hours, missing his voice in your pocket, his snarky remarks about Dean, the pictures of America’s most ridiculous monuments, the random lore facts in the middle of the night. You’re falling hard, and you know it. 

Unfortunately, Amy knows it too, and you can tell in every look she gives you, can read the thoughts behind every eye roll. She thinks you’re going to get your heart broken again. But this thing with Sam is  _ different _ . You aren’t  _ trying _ to fall for a hunter, but you are. And, dammit, you’re happy for the first time in a long time. You’re at least going to enjoy it while it lasts. 

So when the  _ brrrrrng _ of the phone echoes through the mostly empty bar, you lurch to grab it.

“Hello?” You’re breathless, even though you only ran about two feet. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Amy at the end of the bar shaking her head. 

“Hey, you.” His voice is smooth like a swallow of good scotch, and you can hear the smile around his words. 

“Hi.” You sound like a love-sick school girl, and you can barely keep yourself from twirling the phone cord around your finger. You lean against the doorframe instead, your heart hammering against your ribs—it’s been a long time since you’ve heard his voice, and hearing it through the phone clutched tight in your hand feels just as intimate and close as his lips on your skin, his breath ghosting past your ear.

You hear Dean, faint in the background, say “Hi, Y/N!” and the even fainter rumble of the impala behind that. 

“Where are you guys headed?” you ask, your heart finally calming down enough that you can breathe somewhat normally again. 

“Well,” Sam says, and you can just about picture his dimples, “turns out we’re heading your way.” 

**

Five hours later, the last light of day is dying outside the dusty windows, and you don’t have any customers yet. It’s quiet. Well, except for your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Your palms are sweaty and your stomach is in knots and your excitement has bittered into anxiety. Your brain is on the attack with hypotheticals: It’s been almost two months since you’ve seen him—what if it’s different or weird now? Or what if—your stomach clenches—what if he sees you and he’s not interested any more? You try to shake it off.  _ This _ is why you don’t let yourself get attached to guys, especially guys that can’t stick around. Especially hunters. 

When you hear the familiar rumble of the impala outside, your stomach flips. The heavy doors creak and slam and boots crunch across the gravel parking lot, and you try to look busy, pushing a hand through your hair and pushing your nerves down into the pit of your stomach, as low as they’ll go. You turn around, so you won’t be facing the door when they come in, and grab a towel, drying glasses that are already dry. 

The door creaks as it opens, and you force yourself to count to ten before you look up. A few heavy footsteps hit the hardwood floor. You only make it to seven. 

He’s grinning wide, dimples deep in his cheeks, as he crosses the room in long strides, weaving his way between the empty tables and coming right around the side of the bar and sweeping you up into his arms in a bear hug. You nearly drop the glass you’re holding as he crushes you against his chest, and your noise of surprise makes him laugh, his breath puffing against your cheek. He holds one hand against the back of your head. 

“I missed you,” he says, and your heart feels like it might explode all over the room. 

“I missed you, too.” Your words are muffled against his coat. 

He doesn’t set you back on your feet again until he’s given you a searing hot kiss, stealing all the breath from your lungs. Once you can breathe again, you glance around the empty bar.

“Where’s Dean?” you ask, hardly used to seeing one Winchester without the other. 

“In the car.” Sam gives you a lopsided grin—only one dimple—and bites his lip. “He said he’d give us a minute to get all the shmoop out of the way.”

“I have to say, he’s got the right idea,” says a voice from behind you. 

“Hey, Amy,” Sam says, glancing over your head, his dimples turning bashful and his cheeks staining the tiniest bit pink. You set the glass you were holding on the counter and turn around to see your sister standing in the doorway of the office, arms crossed over her chest. But she’s smiling. 

“Hey, Sam,” she says. When Dean comes in, stomping the slush off his boots, she disappears back into the office. 

You turn to grab a few beers out of the cooler, and when you set Sam’s in front of him, he touches your wrist. “What happened?” he asks with concerned eyes. 

“The fight last night,” you say. “When my phone got shattered—I fell on my wrist. But it’s no big deal. Just a sprain.” You raise your arm and try to bend it back and forth without wincing. You're only partly successful.

“You should have Sam take a look at it,” Dean says with a smirk. “He’s pretty good with sprains.” He gives you a cheesy wink, and you laugh. 

“I’m sure you are," you say, looking at Sam, "but I think I’m okay. It barely even hurts anymore.” 

But you do end up finding out how good Sam is with “sprains” later—after Amy and Dean practically shove the two of you out of the bar, an hour before your regular closing time. “I can’t take your sexual tension for one more second,” Dean says. “Get out of here.” But he’s smiling, and you don’t miss the nudge he gives Sam before turning back to the bar, promising to help Amy clean up tonight. As soon as you get into your apartment, Sam is all desperate kisses and gentle hands. He's extra careful around your hurt wrist, making sure you don’t have to put any weight on it, holding it soft against his chest when he kisses you, when he makes you come.

**

He’s sitting in the chair in the corner of your bedroom—the one you bought at a garage sale for ten dollars and (badly) reupholstered yourself, the one you said you would use for reading but turned out to not be very comfortable so usually it just holds your piles of clean clothes. Now it holds Sam, nearly naked except for his boxer briefs, his long legs bent in front of him, holding your laptop. The glow from the screen illuminates his face and bare shoulders, the hair on his chest casting wobbly shadows across his sweat slick skin. You roll over and burrow a little further under the blanket, breathing in the lingering, warm scent of him. The light tap of the keys and click of the mouse could almost lull you back to sleep. Almost. 

You only have one hard rule when it comes to guys since your husband died: no hunters. But you usually don’t go for guys younger than you or guys with long hair either. Sam is the exception to every rule. But the way you feel when you’re with him, you haven’t felt in…well, in a long time. Your chest aches. 

Sam rubs a hand over the soft scruff covering his jaw, his brow furrowed slightly at whatever is on the screen. You watch his fingers, deft and strong, and you recall all the things they made you feel just a few hours ago and you squeeze your thighs together. 

You slip out of bed and pad across the room, so quiet that Sam doesn’t even hear you—or he’s so absorbed in whatever he’s reading that he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t look up until your knees are almost touching his. 

“Sorry,” he says, dimpling. “Is the light keeping you up?”

You shake your head, leaning forward and taking the laptop out from under his hands and setting it on top of your dresser. Then you climb into his lap, straddling his narrow hips with your thighs, and grind down. He smiles again and you can see the surprised  _ oh _ expression in the dimming glow of the laptop screen.

He brushes your hair away from your face, cups your cheek in the palm of his hand, and kisses you, light and languid and soft. He presses into the small of your back with his other hand, shifts his hips slightly so his cock, more than half-hard inside his boxers now, brushes past your core and you gasp a little against his lips. You’re still pretty sensitive from round one, and you know you could come easily and quickly this way, especially with the way Sam’s pressing his tongue against your collarbone and down over one peaked nipple then the other.  _ Yeah _ you could come easily this way, but you don’t want to. Not yet. 

“Hold on,” you whisper and wiggle off his lap, rushing over to grab a bottle of lube and a condom from the drawer of your nightstand. When you get back to him, he’s shed his boxers and his cock is fully at attention, curving up slightly toward his belly button. You climb back onto his lap, sitting back a little on his strong thighs, and rub a squirt of lube between your palms. Slowly, you take the weight of him in your hand, stroke down and back up, and he groans, a low rumble deep in his chest. The light from the laptop has long gone dark, so you can’t see his face anymore, but you can imagine the expression—eyes closed, lips parted, chin tipped up. 

“Can...can I…” he pleads, digging his fingers into your hips and pulling you forward. You tear into the condom and roll it onto him, and then lift yourself up with trembling thighs and sink onto him. The stretch is easy and comfortable, and you grip onto his shoulder with one hand as you start to rock back and forth, slow and steady. 

“Ugh. Fuck,” he grits out between clenched teeth before kissing you again, hot and open mouthed, your hurt wrist cradled against his chest. You spread your knees as far as the chair will allow, needing him deeper, needing the friction of him pressing against you with each rock of your hips. 

“Sam,” you say, almost a whine, and you start to shake under his hands. He cups your ass, keeps you moving as your orgasm turns you into a shuddering, panting, writhing mess on top of him. You’re just beginning to come down from it when he seizes up under you, groaning his release into your shoulder. 

You feel sort of weightless and floaty, like you’re in a dream, as he picks you up and carries you to the bed in the dark. He helps you get cleaned up and then crawls into bed beside you and curls his body around yours, wrapping you up in his warmth. 

You expect him to fall asleep immediately, but after a few minutes he’s still restless behind you, his breathing shallow and light. You turn slightly and whisper into the dark, “Still awake?” 

“Sorry,” he breathes into your hair. 

You turn around to face him, reach out and trace the lines of his face with the tips of your fingers. Across his eyebrows, down the side of his face, over his dimples. He reaches up, touching your braced wrist lightly, and sighs. 

“What is it?” you whisper into the dark, your heart aching heavy in your chest.  

“I really like you,” he says. You almost laugh. 

“Sam,” you say, quiet. “I really like you, too.” 

He laughs then, short and low, and reaches for you, weaving his fingers between yours and pulling your hand against his bare chest. “I feel like I should have...been here. When you needed me.”

“Sam, I’m not…” You consider your words carefully. “I’m not expecting...anything. I don’t need someone here all the time, someone to rescue me or keep me safe.” He opens his mouth, but you push on. “That’s what you do, I know that. But the world need you. And I need to be here. So, let’s just keep on doing...this.” 

He nods, slowly, the corners of his mouth going down slightly and then up, dimples appearing in his cheeks, and the tension in your chest eases a little. “Just… this,” he repeats. 

“Yeah.” You grin. “This.” And then you kiss him.

******

Hours after you’ve watched the Winchester’s impala drive away with your heart, you’re wiping down the bar and restocking the cooler after closing. Amy’s in the office counting the cash from the night. The place is quiet and shadowy, and that’s when you like it best. 

You yawn—the lack of sleep from the night before catching up with you (not that you’re complaining)—and you’re already thinking about climbing into bed as you fill a bucket with water and get ready to mop down the floors. 

You can’t believe it was just this morning that Sam was in your bed, one arm propped behind his head as he squinted at his phone, his bicep bulging. The emotion of that moment hit you square in the stomach, not because he looked so good (thought he  _ did _ look damn good), but because it felt so intimate to see him like that—half naked and just awake and washed in the morning light streaming through the curtains. The way he looked up at you and gave you that effortless smile. His voice rough and his skin sleep warm and soft.

You’re so zoned out that when the phone rings it makes you jump. The bucket is overflowing into the sink and the mop you were holding clatters against the floor. You lunge for the receiver, pressing a palm to your chest, trying to calm your pounding heart from the outside. 

“Hello?” you say, your stomach giving a little flutter. Sam and Dean should be halfway to West Texas by now, on their way to three missing persons reports and an abandoned asylum rumored to be haunted. Maybe Sam’s just calling to chat—to get through the long drive, to have someone to talk to while Dean sleeps in the passenger seat. 

“Y/N?” But it’s Dean’s voice that comes through the receiver, and it takes your brain a second to catch up. 

“Dean?” Why would Dean be calling? “What’s wrong?”   


“Yeah, Y/N, uh.” His voice is thin, laced with fear, and your heart drops to the depths of your stomach. “There—there was an accident.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry (not sorry) for that cliffhanger ending! Chapter Three will be coming soon! Thanks for reading! <3


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